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User blog:MollyMae/Stories Part 2
I am a klutz and I have injuries to prove it. I have scars and burns and callouses on nearly every part of my body. It's not a very pretty sight. When I was nine, my brother pushed me onto a garbage bag outside our house. We were running home from some place or another and he thought it prudent to push me as we arrived. Perhaps for him it was a race that he wanted to win (this had become a recurring theme between us until we stopped talking about five years ago). The garbage bag, much to my dismay, contained the shards of a broken apple juice bottle (gallon-sized) which he had broken earlier that morning. Either there is great coincidence in all of that or he knew what would happen (and perhaps I hold that against him). Intentional or not, my right leg passed over and through a large piece of broken glass (I cringe as I remember and type this). My leg sliced to the bone and I was shocked (in a medical way). I watched as my leg opened up and blood began pouring out--I did not faint. My mother didn't have a driver's license (or a car) and my father was gone (probably at work). We (used loosely) borrowed the neighbour's car and took a ride to the hospital (I'm trying to do this with an air of whimsy, so I don't really think about the whole situation, which still makes me queasy). I bled all over the car. I went to the hospital and got stitches. I don't remember a whole lot during that time, but my mother was upset because the hospital staff (who I can no longer regard as experts to more recent events in life) were clearly assuming that she had cut me. It was a clean cut, though, and it has held together, although I can clearly feel it on my leg as if it's happy I'm telling this story--or perhaps it just wants to break free (I've had this last thought all too often these last few years). The scar is still clearly visible. It took only thirteen stitches (I've had triple that in one sitting since). The only thing I really remember about the hospital that day was being self-conscious about the Superman underwear I was wearing. The doctor wanted me to walk to a different room and I wasn't wearing anything else after they cut my pants off my legs (why didn't I get a damn gown?). I have another story about those underwear, but I won't share it here--it's not interesting, in any case. It's just a memory that never left. When I was nine or ten, I slipped on a freshly mopped floor. My hands were otherwise occupied at the time and I didn't have a chance to break my fall. I lost two and a half permanent teeth (that get replaced every 3-5 years). I went into a brief shock, blood fled my face, and I felt cold. I probably would have passed out if I hadn't felt so sick. When I was fifteen, I cut my finger open on a glass bottle. The bleeding didn't stop for several hours and, when it finally did, the bandage had been worked in to the graft the white blood cells made. As painful as the original injury was, removing the bandage was at least twice as bad--a slow and steady tearing, made more difficult by blood that came pouring over my hand. I lost a lot of blood. I'm surprised I didn't pass out. The scar is now a callous on my right index finger, which has been integrated into my nervous habit of finger biting. When I was seventeen, I fell down a set of stone stairs and broke my chin open. I don't remember much, but I do remember puking on the sidewalk (we were in a public state park). I felt bad because Greg worked there and would have to clean it up, but he turned out to be an asshole anyway so I usually laugh when I think about it now. When I was eighteen I got set on fire...but I won't tell that story. When I was twenty-three, I had an inch-long splinter go through my finger. I remember the incident, where it happened, when it happened, who I was with, what I was doing, but I can't remember which finger it was. There is no clear indication on my fingers. How odd. In all of my injuries, though, I've never broken a bone (don't count teeth). I fell off a roof when I was thirteen without injury. I dropped a 50 kg box on my toes a few years ago. They got mashed pretty good, but nothing broken. I have been struck in the head by everything from sports objects (baseballs, basketballs, black people) to household objects (batteries, a rolling pin) to various miscellany (a coke can, a shovel). Car accidents, tumbles, fights (there were a few). No broken bones. I shudder when I imagine what it feels like, and that very well might be the worst fear of all. Perhaps if I just break a finger now, it won't be as bad as I imagine it to be. But I couldn't. That covers all but the most recent of my major injuries (accidentally imposed, anyway). I guess it takes time to be able to talk about these events (although I've been willing for awhile what she said), but the most recent few I am likely to forget or sit* or at least not admit. Perhaps someday. But certainly not soon. And certainly not here. *Note: I originally used the word "hide" here, but after I made the "forget" and "admit" rhyme connection, I had to change it. Category:Blog posts